


Invisible

by cjmarlowe



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Long Distance Relationship, M/M, erotic memories, kink bingo, phonesex/epistolary, unorthodox use of bodily fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-13 00:34:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cjmarlowe/pseuds/cjmarlowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fact that Granby is unsentimental doesn't mean that he does not take pains to preserve his human connections, whatever form they might take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invisible

The fact that Granby is unsentimental doesn't mean that he does not take pains to preserve his human connections, whatever form they might take. His letters are infrequently both given and received, but he makes the effort from time to time.

He makes a habit of leaving wide spaces between his lines, even though he's been accused of wasting precious paper during times of scarcity; his infrequent correspondence, he hopes, makes up the difference. The spaces themselves he'll make appropriate use of later, though perhaps inappropriate would be more accurate, all things considered. He's always left spaces just so, ever since he learned to make his letters; anyone who's met him would know that. 

He's likely overthinking the whole process; he can't think that anybody is going to be examining his messages for intelligence, aviator or not. There are many men his senior, and thanks to Iskierka he's not known as the most reliable, in any sense. Certainly not the sort of man to be drafted into that type of work.

It doesn't matter so much what this portion of the letter says; general niceties, comments on the weather, a few choice remarks about the political landscape, none of which can be said to be either sensitive or informative. A note of affection towards the formation as a whole. An inquiry after Little's cousin, whom he met at a function three years ago and who is currently undergoing treatment for an unnamed malady. Nothing of particular interest, yet personal enough to make it seem like the whole of what Granby intends to say.

Which it certainly is not.

The rest, however, requires both more effort and more conviction, for the things he wants to say to Little during this long separation, one of many they've endured, are not meant for all eyes. Certainly they're neither of them celibate in between, but there's something special about those moments he spends with someone who understands every part of him, from his preferences to his circumstances of birth to his bond with Iskierka.

Granby's not in love. What he has is a fellowship of affection and convenience. But still, as he loosens his trousers and slips his hand inside it's Little he's thinking of, and he imagines that something of his respect and affection will somehow come through in the private words of his letter. There's certainly respect and affection and lust going into the making of them. 

While he could certainly go through the mechanics of self-pleasuring without enjoying the experience in more than a brusque, utilitarian way, Granby instead has several fantasies that he employs, closing his eyes as he works himself with little ornamentation and imagining that the hand doing it is not his own. It would not be wrong to say that he's adventurous when enjoying the company of others, and that serves him well when he's forced to take care of his needs on his own.

Little is a favourite subject, not only because of their mutual affection but because familiarity has made them creative, and knowing one another's preferences leads not to exploring the same touches each time their paths cross but to creating new ways in which to pleasure one another. There are few ways in which they haven't at least tried, and while Granby has his favourites he always looks forward to whatever they might discover next.

Here, in this moment, while he is not just pleasuring himself to memories of Little's touch but also performing a necessary act in order to complete his correspondence, he does not venture far from his favourite intimate acts, Little's mouth on his body doing secret and wonderful things.

He is careful as he approaches completion, ensuring that he has something in which to contain his ejaculate and pushing through the last few moments with eyes open and mind on the task at hand rather than off in a field with Little two years gone. While his completion leaves him dizzy and breathless, as it so often does, he also manages to not spill a drop. And so a few moments later, sated and ready, he carries on with his letter.

It has long been known to people of his proclivities—and likely to many others as well—that ejaculate, when used in place of ink, dries invisibly. It is a convenient and near-perfect medium to convey secret or private messages, no matter where a man finds himself, so long as the recipient knows the means by which to make the writing visible again. Which both he and Little most certainly do.

He only manages to write half of the things he wants to say, filthy words he wouldn't dare speak aloud, even in the coarse presence of other aviators or Little alone, punctuated by occasional bursts of tenderness, and has to rest before he can produce more. He is likely repeating himself, for the words he's written disappear soon after he's put them to paper, between the visible lines of his more innocuous missive. He doesn't worry about that, nor the myriad misspellings that might now be hidden. His sentiment will no doubt be all the clearer for them.

The second time is slower than the first. Granby would have been quite satisfied with the one go, were he doing this solely for his own gratification, so the second requires more active concentration, more deliberate movements, and a little rougher, wetter hand. It's more _effort_ , even as he imagines the last time he and Little found a moment in an abandoned shelter, remembers the tight heat of him, the smell of him, the feel of their bodies slipping slickly together.

He produces less to work with this time, but it's sufficient to complete his letter in what would be an embarrassingly explicit way if he were to have to read it back to himself afterwards. As it is, he remembers more of how he was feeling as he wrote it than the actual words he put to paper.

Signing the letter is a risk, but not signing it is much more suspicious, and despite every reason he has to believe that no one but Little will give this letter a second glance, assuming it makes it to him at all and isn't lost at sea over these great distances, he still thinks in terms of being found out. It's not a constant worry that he lives with, but it rears its head often enough.

Still, that's a risk he takes, and he seals the letter before he can second guess himself, tucking it away for the next time they have an opportunity to send their communications. He does hope it won't be long, for in exchange for this letter flung far across the ocean, he anticipates he may receive one in return. If it's anything like his own, he expects he'll enjoy reading it almost as much as he enjoyed writing this one.


End file.
